80 Years, and Still Waiting for Truth

As Indonesia reaches its eightieth year of independence, reflection becomes not merely an act of remembrance but an obligation to measure how far the nation has walked along the path of its promise. Eight decades ago, the cry of freedom was a declaration of dignity, an insistence that the people of the archipelago were not destined to be ruled but to govern themselves with honour. Today, as fireworks light the skies and flags ripple in the wind, the true question lies not in the pageantry of the occasion but in the honesty of our introspection. Have we, as heirs of that moment of courage, fulfilled the vision of justice and prosperity entrusted to us?

The narrative of Indonesia has always been one of resilience, a tale woven by rivers that carve valleys, by mountains that anchor islands, and by countless hands that toil beneath the tropical sun. Independence was never meant to be an endpoint; it was a beginning, a pledge that suffering under colonial shadow would give way to collective flourishing. Yet, the challenge of the present lies in bridging the distance between rhetoric and reality. Inequality, corruption, environmental decline, and political theatre still create fractures in the promise of freedom, reminding us that independence must be defended not only from external threats but also from our own complacency.

In the daily reality of Indonesian life, the challenges that ordinary citizens face are not grand philosophical puzzles, but a string of practical, pressing issues that weigh on their time, wallets, and peace of mind. Rising prices of essential goods strike first and hardest, turning every trip to the market into a small act of economic strategy. It is not a question of theoretical inflation figures but of mothers recalculating the week’s menu when chillies cost as much as meat. Such fluctuations create a constant undercurrent of anxiety, where budgeting becomes an exercise in survival rather than choice.

Traffic congestion forms the second great burden, a slow-moving beast that devours hours of human life in exchange for mere kilometres of progress. In urban centres, the gap between one’s home and workplace is often measured less in distance than in patience, while public transport remains patchy, overcrowded, and insufficiently integrated. For those in smaller cities or rural regions, the challenge shifts from gridlock to sheer accessibility—how to get from point A to point B when the infrastructure is indifferent to human needs.

Healthcare access, although improved by the expansion of BPJS, is far from equitable. In major cities, facilities may be available but queues are long and medicines sometimes scarce. In remote areas, treatment may require a costly and exhausting journey, with the additional risk of arriving to find that the necessary equipment or drugs are unavailable. Illness, in such circumstances, becomes not merely a medical condition but a logistical crisis. Not to mention the attitude of paramedics who treat BPJS members as pariahs.

For the young and able-bodied, the hunt for decent employment remains both urgent and discouraging. Many find themselves locked into short-term contracts or informal jobs that pay too little to live on and offer no security for the future. The sense of national pride in a “growing economy” is dimmed when growth fails to translate into stability for those just starting their careers.

Environmental and infrastructural neglect adds yet another layer of strain. The rainy season, instead of being a blessing, becomes a test of endurance for communities living in flood-prone areas. Poor drainage, haphazard urban planning, and minimal disaster preparedness transform natural weather cycles into annual states of emergency.

Even in the supposed digital age, connectivity is uneven. In some towns and villages, internet access is slow, expensive, and unreliable, creating a silent divide in education, entrepreneurship, and civic participation. While streaming entertainment may be a luxury, stable connections for schoolwork or small business operations are a necessity, and the absence of such infrastructure keeps communities locked out of opportunity.

Bureaucratic inefficiency, finally, remains a timeless grievance. Administrative procedures can drain days of productive life, whether one is securing an identity card, registering a business, or applying for public assistance. Without personal connections, the wheels turn painfully slowly; with them, suspicion lingers about fairness and integrity.

Indonesians generally dislike their officials because, in the eyes of the public, these figures appear less as servants of the people and more as masters of privilege. There is a long historical memory in which officials have been associated with corruption, broken promises, and an endless appetite for luxury, and this memory continues to shape current perceptions. When scandals of embezzlement and abuse of power repeatedly make the headlines, citizens naturally conclude that politics is not a path of service but rather a marketplace for personal gain.

The gap between officials and ordinary citizens is also painfully obvious. While many Indonesians struggle with the price of rice or the cost of school fees, their leaders are frequently seen in motorcades, foreign trips, and lavish ceremonies. This contrast is not simply economic but deeply symbolic: it says to the people, “we are not the same.” And when campaign promises vanish into thin air after election day, cynicism grows deeper, feeding the impression that every politician is interchangeable in deceit.

Furthermore, the spectacle of political dynasties and recycled elites reinforces the sense that public office has become a family business rather than a public trust. Add to this the tone-deaf remarks of certain officials, which spread like wildfire on social media, and you have the perfect recipe for resentment. For the average Indonesian, the phrase “wakil rakyat” (representative of the people) has become ironic; it often feels as though the people represent themselves, while the officials represent their own pockets.

The cumulative effect of these everyday burdens is a quiet erosion of trust in leadership. Citizens may listen politely to speeches about national progress, but their judgement is shaped more by the condition of their kitchens, the roads they travel, and the services they can access without extraordinary effort. If President Prabowo truly wishes to connect with the people he serves, it is in these humble but deeply felt arenas that he must prove both awareness and action.

It is a curious spectacle: nations with far less in nature’s treasury often manage to outshine those drowning in abundance. The Netherlands, whose highest peaks would scarcely trouble a cyclist, somehow remains a model of order and prosperity. Switzerland, stubbornly landlocked, sails the financial seas with enviable grace. Japan, with a cupboard of natural resources that would make a miser blush, still manages to flood the world with innovation. Singapore, whose rice paddies are now only found in history books, feeds its citizens with more security than many agricultural giants. Saudi Arabia, a sandcastle kingdom with a few green dots, offers public services that could make richer lands weep. And then there is Indonesia, a nation blessed with mountains, seas, forests, minerals, and soil so fertile that even laziness might sprout. Yet the harvest too often is not progress, but excuses. The problem is not what the land lacks, but what the leadership fails to find—namely, a functioning moral compass and the discipline to follow it. Nature has been generous; it is humanity that appears to be in short supply. After all, gold, oil, and timber can be stolen, but wisdom and integrity cannot—and therein lies the real poverty.

Eighty years of independence offer not only a milestone to celebrate but also a mirror that reveals imperfections demanding correction. The nation, though proud of its endurance, cannot escape the truth that inequality continues to widen the gap between those who enjoy the fruits of prosperity and those who struggle simply to survive. Corruption, like an old disease that refuses to heal, still gnaws at the bones of institutions that were meant to safeguard justice. The environment, once revered as mother and guardian, has been plundered in the name of progress, leaving scars upon forests, rivers, and skies. Education, the supposed ladder of mobility, often still bends beneath the weight of privilege, shutting out many who deserve a chance to climb.

The political sphere, meanwhile, has too often become a stage for spectacle rather than service, with leaders speaking more of loyalty to themselves than to the people. In the noise of slogans and ceremonies, the quiet cries of fishermen, farmers, and factory workers are sometimes drowned out. These are not failures to be hidden under banners of celebration; they are realities that must be confronted if independence is to mean more than ritual remembrance. True reflection at eighty demands courage: the courage to admit shortcomings, to reject complacency, and to pursue justice not as an ornament but as the heartbeat of the Republic.

Even as regimes change and new faces sit upon the nation’s throne, the noisy echo of the “buzzers” remains, their voices clashing in cyberspace like restless spirits unwilling to leave. The question that lingers, whispered in warungs and debated in parlours, is not whether they exist but who sustains them. It is unlikely to be the President himself, for his power is already wrapped in more visible instruments of statecraft. The financing must therefore come from other reservoirs: political parties safeguarding their own networks, businessmen shielding their interests, and factions within the machinery of government who hold the keys to budgets that are never fully illuminated. The persistence of these digital armies is a reminder that independence from colonial powers did not free us from the subtler chains of manipulation, and that the struggle for truth and dignity now lies in the unseen battlefield of information.

The eightieth anniversary is therefore a summons to courage once more, but courage of a different kind: the courage to be self-critical, the courage to demand integrity from leaders, and the courage to foster unity in diversity without falling into shallow slogans. The spirit of independence is not locked in museums or monuments; it lives in the capacity of citizens to care for one another, to guard the land from exploitation, and to ensure that justice is not a privilege of the powerful but the right of all. If the generation of 1945 gave us sovereignty, it falls upon our shoulders to give meaning to that sovereignty in the daily lives of ordinary Indonesians.

Thus, as the Republic celebrates its eightieth year, the fireworks should be more than spectacle, the parades more than ritual. They must be reminders that independence is not a trophy but a task, not a destination but a discipline. To honour the past truly is to shape a future in which the ideals of freedom are not words recited once a year, but realities lived every day.

[Bahasa]